


Danno Don't Surf

by Apetslife



Category: Hawaii 5-0 (2010), Steve/Danny - Fandom
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-01
Updated: 2011-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apetslife/pseuds/Apetslife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Steve has it in for Danny's ties.  And his hair gel.  This calls for a special op, Chin disclaiming all responsibility, and shenanigans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Danno Don't Surf

**Author's Note:**

> I watched way too many surfing videos while trying to write this.

Danny is in good shape. Steve knows this. He realizes it every day, in a comfortable, aching sort of way, when Danny runs or stretches his arms or leans over. Just being in shape, though, isn't the same as being athlete-fit, and Danny's sweating hard right now.

Steve kicks back a little further in his beach chair, digs his bare toes a little further into the sand, takes a long drink of his beer, and lets the sweet sweet sound of Kono's drill-sergeant voice wash over him like a wave.

" _Faster_ , Danny, you've got to get both feet up on the board at the same exact time." She demonstrates effortlessly and Danny scrunches up his reddening face and flops down onto the board, then rolls over on his back, raising a hand.

"Break, break. I need a break. You're a cruel woman, and I haven't even gone out in the water yet, and I'm really starting to think this was a _very_ bad idea."

"Big baby," Steve comments into the air, peacefully.

"No commentary from the peanut gallery," Danny tells him, before looking back up to Kono. Even his bare shoulders are shiny with sweat and getting pink from the sun, despite the SPF 45 he'd been putting on in Steve's living room.

"It's for your own good," Kono insists, not even breathing hard, hands on her hips as she peers down at Danny, flopped on his board and looking like he'll never move again. "If you're not solid on land, how are you gonna keep your feet when you're on the wave?"

"At this point I'm starting to think I'm more a boogie board guy," Danny muses, staring up at the sky.

"Don't give up now," Steve urges, suddenly alarmed. He's been counting on seeing Danny on a surfboard ever since glimpsing that aborted lesson last week, and watching him paddle around on a boogie board just wouldn't be the same. "You're no dick dragger, you'll be fine. Stand up like a man, Danno. Show that board who's the boss."

"'Dick dragger?' Seriously?" Danny cranes around to look at Steve again, eyebrows going up, and Kono laughs.

"Slang for a boogieboarder, brah," she tells Danny through her smile, and he rolls his eyes and relaxes back down onto the board.

"I swear, half your surfer talk is something I'd never want Gracie to hear. And you want me to bring her out here among you degenerates? Seriously?"

"Next week, I heard you promise her. You'd better be surfing by then," Steve tips the neck of his beer bottle in Danny's general direction. "Kids surf great. They're practically rubber, they have no fear, and they don't fight the waves. Your little girl is gonna surf rings around you if you don't get up and keep practicing."

"She's probably going to anyway," Danny groans, but he does heave himself up to his feet again, and Kono claps her hands, and five more pop-ups and Kono finally, finally deems him fit to enter the water. Danny, still in those stupid denim cutoffs, does a little celebratory dance right there on the sand, grabs up his board, and charges into the water, with Kono laughing not far behind him.

Steve goes so far as to drag his chair a little closer to the water's edge. There are barely any waves here down the back of his house, a light swell and a few small breakers, but it's isolated and it's safe, perfect for Danny to get his feet wet. So to speak.

It's probably sad, he knows, that sitting here with a beer, watching Kono paddle out as sleek as a seal, Danny doing his best to keep up, watching them hoist up to sit on their boards and hearing the echo of their voices come over the water, is the closest he can remember coming to real peace. He feels the rigid knot of tension between his shoulder blades--always alert, always set for battle, always ready--give, just a little.

A small swell builds out past his modest breakwater, and even at this distance, he can almost feel the intensity as Danny stares at Kono, who's demonstrating. She paddles hard, riding the rising swell, and then, just as it starts to curl and break she's up, standing in a loose, graceful curve, riding a nice, easy straight line across the wave, hugging the topline, keeping her balance in the froth and then straightening up to glide smoothly down. The basics. A simple, easy run, and Steve's feet are itching to be on that board himself, all of a sudden.

He shakes his head at himself. The last thing he wants to do is crowd Danny, right now. Much as he'd like to get out there and show him how it's done.

Kono paddles back out past the break, bobbing up again next to Danny. Her hands are flying, shaping a wave and a surfer and Steve grins and swallows the last of his beer. He's not going to miss this for the world.

For a long moment, it almost looks like Danny--those jeans have to weigh a ton by now, all wet like that--is going to make it. He paddles in well, gets himself into decent position, but as he hops up he drags a foot and as fast as he was up, he's down, a despairing yelp cut off by an almighty splash.

Danny is one of the most stubborn human beings Steve has ever met; four more wipeouts, boom boom boom boom, and then he finally rides a wave. Wavering, teetering, arms windmilling for balance, sure, but he rides it and when he finally hits the water it's an exultant somersault that has Steve standing up and applauding, Kono cheering wildly from where she's bobbing around on her board past the break, and he can hear Danny's whoops as soon as his head pops back up out of the wave.

"Okay, okay, I admit it, you can swim," Steve calls as Danny hauls his sodden self out of the water, dragging his board behind him, and shakes himself like a wet dog.

"That's what I _told_ you," Danny answers, and god, Steve loves it that Danny never even misses a beat. Has never, as far as Steve can tell, spent a single instant intimidated by him in any way. He just closes his eyes and laughs at Danny and Kono as they both stand right next to him and drip cold seawater all over him.

"Go, get away from me, bring more beer when you come back," he waves them off, ignoring the gut-deep pang as Danny reaches out and tweaks Kono's ear, as she squeaks and runs for the house, Danny hot on her heels, boards left forgotten in the sand.

He's watched them get closer for weeks. Just little things, like the surfing lessons, little in-jokes, Kono laughing more than usual at Danny's lame jokes. Kono will be fantastic for Danny. She's young, yeah, but she's sane and fearless and funny, gorgeous of course, everything someone like Danny needs. She even gets along with Grace. Steve knows all this, believes it with all his heart, and still presses the heel of his hand against his breastbone to ease the fierce ache there.

He'll get used to it. He always has before.

"Howsit, brah?" Chin actually manages to startle him a little, but he recovers fast and hooks another beach chair with his foot, dragging it close in invitation.

"Sit, grab a beer," he invites, and Chin settles in, grabbing a Longboard and popping the cap with a happy sigh.

"Nice evening. You been out?" Chin gestures at the two parked surfboards.

"Nah. Kono and Danno."

" _Danny_?" Chin stares at him.

"Yep. Kono's been working him out all afternoon." Steve takes a long draw off his beer, as proud of Danny as if he'd hoisted him up on the board himself. "Actually stood up for a decent little run there by the end."

"Well I never." Chin laughs, kicks back, shakes his head. "Danny in the ocean. No wonder I heard all that bitching coming from your upstairs bathroom. He must be real upset that you don't have a hair dryer and gel."

"Oh my god." Steve's voice is trembling, he puts a hand over his face, trying to scrub off the smile. "Oh my god, this is even better than not letting him bring a tie. What the...oh Jesus."

Chin is radiating smugness. "I bet he tries to go home."

"He can't, he left the Camaro in the shop at HQ, I drove him over in the truck." Steve can't believe his luck, can _not_ believe it.

"Guess we'll finally get to see what's hiding under all that styling," Chin muses. "Bout time. Going on five months now, I don't think I've ever seen him dressed down."

"It's a thing. I don't get it either." Steve turns his head as he hears Kono's laugh ripple out from his house, watches her head out to the small table on the grass, hands full of snacks and more beer, gorgeous in her sarong, still laughing as she makes her way down to them, bumping Chin's shoulder with her hip as she passes him.

"Danny's not coming out," she tells them, dimples flashing. "He says he locked the door and he's not coming out until someone goes and buys him a comb and some hair gel." She makes a serious face at Steve and Chin. "I hate to be the one to say this, but I gotta say, I think Danny might be a girl. Secretly."

"Too much body hair, and the six-pack gives him away," Steve answers absently, then catches both Chin and Kono staring at him. "What?"

"Nothing, boss. You should really go get him, though. We gotta get the steaks on or it'll roll too late, and you know Chin's due in court tomorrow for that kidnapping case."

"Aw, don't remind me, cuz," Chin groans. "Sucks."

"I still don't know why I have to be the one to go," Steve complains, though he starts levering himself up out of his chair.

"We all know you're the only one who has a chance in hell of getting him out here. Don't hurt him too bad," Kono answers peacefully, sliding into his chair the moment he's clear. The little thief. "And don't forget to bring the steaks."

"Fine, but you slackers better start the grill," Steve points at her, "and if you hear screaming, come in shooting."

"Sure thing," Chin nods. "Absolutely."

"Traitors," Steve mutters, and hikes up the slope to the ominously silent house. Even right outside the bathroom door, he can't hear a thing.

"Danno? Hey." He raps his knuckles lightly on the door, then tries the door handle.

"Do not even think about coming in here," Danny's heading towards what Steve thinks of as his 'danger zone voice,' high and tight, and Steve forces back a smile.

"Come on, we're starting the steaks. Put your panties on and get out here. Time to eat, and I know surfing is hungry work."

"What self-respecting man in 2010 doesn't even have a hairbrush in his house? Especially one who is, and I do not want you to take this the wrong way, because it's certainly not an insult, one as very nearly metrosexual as you appear to be most days? Are you hiding your hair implements somewhere else? Is it a matter of national security? Is your DNA classified or something? If so, just tell me, and I'll burn any stray follicles after use."

Steve rears back and stares at the door, bewildered. "Metro-what?" It doesn't sound good, whatever it is.

"Never mind. Just never mind.” Steve can almost see Danny’s hands waving in exasperation. “Just get me a hairbrush and some, I don't know, do you have anything a normal person owns? Vaseline? Hand cream? Do your cuticles just magically stay perfect and un-dried-out, do they teach that in the Seals along with how to be crazy?"

"No, no, and I have _no_ idea what you're talking about," Steve answers, and he's starting to get impatient, here, this is getting stupid. "Come on, Danny, just come out here. We're family, what the hell, are you hiding the vestigial horns on your head or something? Got a bald spot we don't know about? Just come on."

"No." Danny sounds insanely mulish, and Steve sighs, backs up a step, and kicks down the door.

Danny's shouting before the hinges even hit the floor. "What. The FUCK. Is WRONG with you?" He's half-naked, backed up against the shower door away from the splinters, and looking as shocked as Steve's ever seen him, but he can't really pay much attention to that, because seriously.

Danny has a full head of baby-fine, cherubic golden curls, practically in corkscrews where his hair is longer, all falling down across his forehead and making him look like he's maybe fifteen years old. Sixteen at the outside. The frown, though, the deepening glare is all Danny.

"You are a _fucking_ maniac," Danny fumes, kicking a towel out from under his feet and yanking a t-shirt over his head. "No goddamn respect for private property."

"I own the house," Steve points out automatically.

"Even worse," Danny tells him, and sweeps out the door past him, face flushed red, bristling with offended dignity and pent-up anger.

"Oh man," Steve says to the empty bathroom, and barely remembers to grab the steaks out of the fridge before hustling back to the beach, since Danny has apparently surrendered to the inevitable and decided to face the music.

Kono's giggles are audible even from the door, and Steve's already grinning as he jogs down to join his team. His family.

"It's a good look, I think," Chin is saying gravely, only his eyes laughing. "Softens you up a little, especially with the jeans and everything."

"That's the WHOLE PROBLEM," Danny erupts. "What, you think it's easy getting taken seriously, a five-foot-six cop with this face and this hair? You think I don't realize what I look like right now?" He glares at Steve even as he grabs for a beer, and Kono's got her face in her hands.

"I think you look fine," she says, choked. "Still plenty tough, Danny, really."

"Bullshit," he growls. "And not a word out of you," he adds to Steve. "I don't need the opinion of a neanderthal who kicks in doors in his own home instead of waiting like a normal person."

Kono howls with laughter, bent over and holding her belly.

Steve wants to defend himself, he does. The problem is, Danny is...Danny's almost pretty. Sure, he still has that pugnacious jaw and the nose that looks like it's been broken a couple-three times, but with his hair all in his face, he looks so much softer. Eyes even more blue, mouth more relaxed somehow, and Steve feels it, in his chest, tight in his throat, hot and heavy in his belly.

He turns away abruptly to get the steaks started, and hears Danny and Chin arguing back and forth, then hears Kono's teasing "I hope you're not teaching Grace to be this hung up on appearances, man, it's hard enough for us girls out there," and Danny's off and running again, clearly outraged that she could ever think such a thing about his little girl. Or him. It's hard to tell, really, when Danny's talking that fast, so as usual Steve just tunes it out, lets the sound wash over him like water, and makes sure the steaks are all nice and even over the heat.

"Hey." He jumps when he feels the hand low on his back, startled out of his thoughts, and swings around maybe a little too fast with the spatula. "HEY!" Danny yelps and ducks, startled, but he's laughing now and doesn't move away, and Steve has to grin, because it's all just ridiculous, is all.

"Easy, there, Master Ninja. I'm not threatening the Sacred Grill." He holds up both hands in the universal sign of surrender.

"Good. I'm all out of kickass tonight," Steve tells him, and that gets a patented Danny Williams disbelieving snort.

"Bullshit. Bullshit, you love kicking shit in, no matter what, don't lie." Danny peers interestedly at the steaks. "What’s the ETA on those babies? Turns out you were mostly right, and I could eat a horse."

"Sorry, all we got is cow," Steve deadpans, and Danny rolls his eyes.

"Ha. Ha. You are a funny, funny man. So when do we eat?"

"Since everyone here eats steak the good and bloody way, about...ten minutes," Steve estimates. "Do me a favor, how about you and Kono go grab the stuff from the kitchen?" Since their first team night dinner, everyone's brought a dish or something to pass, and it's all in the fridge, and looking at Danny right now is making Steve's hands itch with the desire to reach out, touch, get those curls out of Danny's face and maybe stroke the soft spot behind his ear, and Danny is so close he can feel the warmth all up and down one side, and it's just not fair.

"Yeah, okay. Hey, man." Steve glances sideways, and Danny's watching him, that little furrow between his eyes that means he's worried about something. "You okay? You got that face on."

"I don't have any face on. I'm fine. Now scram, get the food."

Danny's eyes narrow and Steve can tell he's not buying it, but he and Kono do go back in the house and get salad, and plates, and the fruit, and Steve gets a little breathing room.

***

Monday morning and it's like that other Danny--who Steve now has imprinted on the back of his eyelids--is gone forever. Maybe he'd been imagining it, but the night before, a fire burning on the beach and wearing flip-flops and jeans, hair everywhere and not a tie in sight, Danny had really seemed to relax. He'd unwound and Steve had felt himself loosening up and relaxing, too, and it had been amazing.

So when Danny struts into the 5-0 headquarters in full-on Jersey Detective Mode, Steve sighs. He's even got the patent leather shoes back on, and Steve had thought he'd talked him out of those for practical reasons. He's wearing the one shirt in his collection that is made of starchy-stiff dress material instead of the lightweight crinkly cotton, and yeah, he's even got the top button done up. Belt, tie, holster, badge gleaming, maybe Steve had made that other Danny up in his head. Worst of all, his hair is as stiff and straight as Steve's ever seen it.

"Wow." Chin props a hip on Steve's desk and nods at Danny admiringly. "He's all dressed up."

"And _you're_ the one going to court," Steve agrees, eyeballing Chin's henley and cargo pants and finding nothing wrong with them. "Someday a perp is going to get him by that tie, and strangle him, and he'll realize I've been right all along."

"Uh huh," Chin answers noncommittally.

"What?"

"Nothing." Steve glares, crosses his arms. "Well. Don't you think you're a little fixated on his wardrobe? Saying as a friend, brah. Let the man wear what he wants."

"He looks ridiculous," Steve frets, "and there's no way he can run in those goddamn shoes."

"Just leave it be," Chin advises him. Salutes him with his coffee, and heads towards the door and court and away from this house of insanity.

Kono wolf-whistles at Danny when she comes through the big double doors, hands full of coffees, and Steve feels his teeth grind. He knows, rationally, that they are adorable together. That they'll probably get together, at some point, because that's how things happen. That Danny has never shown in word or deed that he might get hot for men as well as women, and that Steve _knows better_ after fifteen years in the Navy, and all that time, being so, so very careful.

None of it seems to matter. Kono whistles and Danny does a smug little twirl with his arms out and just. It's the last straw. He starts planning, and an hour later, he's out the door.

"Are you insane?" Chin sounds utterly incredulous even through Steve's earpiece, from his phone where still waiting to get called to the witness stand, and Steve thinks that maybe calling him hadn't been such a good idea. "No, I get that you're insane, we all know that. But what are you even thinking, Steve? He's gonna go _nuclear_ on your ass."

"It's for his own good," Steve insists, as with one last wiggle, Danny's lock gives to his pick, and swings silently open. "You know as well as me it's not healthy to run around in that kind of outfit when it's midsummer. And I'm pretty sure those chemicals in hairspray give you cancer."

"You _are_ crazy," Chin marvels, as if to himself. "More than I thought. I want to go officially on the record here, you should not do this, boss."

"It's a special covert op," Steve insists stubbornly. "And don't tell me you don't think it'll be funny."

"It'll be funny," Chin admits reluctantly. "Once the fallout settles, maybe. I am not getting involved, here."

"Come on," Steve wheedles, easing his way into the main room of Danny's shithole apartment, looking around even as he keeps talking. "I'm not burning this place down, I'm just...liberating some ties. And Danny's hair. Maybe a pair of shoes or two."

"At the precinct, we call this kind of thing 'burglary,' you know," Chin's grinning now, Steve can tell. "Breaking and entering. Home invasion. Class B Felony. You could do five to ten."

"They'll never take me alive," Steve answers absently. "A-hah! Motherlode. All right, I'm signing off. Glad to hear he's doing witness interviews for the next few, thanks, Chin."

"I was never there," Chin insists. "I never spoke to you, I know nothing about this, and you are on your own, brah." Then he clicks off, and Steve huffs a little laugh.

First, the ties. Most of them, anyway, there are a few that are decent enough and he knows Danny can't live without a couple. Then a clean sweep of the bathroom, where he marvels over the "anti-frizz" and "humidity-beater!" and "ultra-solid hold" cans he dumps into his duffel.

The shirts are easy. Anything too prim, anything that screams “East Coast Mainland Detective,” he grabs and stuffs into the bag, a little more forcefully than strictly necessary. He’s starting to hate the state of New Jersey, to the point where even hearing the name makes his stomach clench. He’s never even been there and he’s honest enough to realize that maybe it’s a little irrational, maybe it’s not totally fair, but every time Danny says “home” and means that goddamn snow-and-concrete-afflicted state, Steve winds himself up another notch tighter. Getting rid of the shirts is deeply satisfying. He leaves a few back, though, especially the ones that make Danny’s eyes look nice and blue.

Finally, the shoes, though he realizes with some horror that Danny really only has four pairs: sneakers, which are fine, the black boots that Steve had convinced him to buy, his flip-flops, and the shiny evil patent leather monstrosities currently adorning his feet. Steve will have to leave them for another raid.

Bundling everything together carefully, he pauses before leaving the studio. Danny is, after all, a trained detective, and might get a little too excited if he realizes someone's been in his place. Carefully block-lettering, Steve writes "DANNO YOU WERE NOT ROBBED" on a sticky note, tacks it to the backside of the door, and carefully locks back up before heading home with his contraband.

His phone buzzes as he's turning towards home to drop off the bag, and he picks it up, instantly alert. It's Kono's tone, and according to Chin she and Danny are supposed to be doing canvassing and witness interviews, which doesn’t usually require his input.

"Talk to me," he says, and thank god he's only about two miles from Makiki Heights, and his truck fishtails as he drags it into a donut turn and guns it so he can meet them. Shots fired. It's always shots fired, for some reason.

By the time he speeds up, jumps out of the truck and leaves it running, Danny's sitting on one hogtied guy and Kono's got a middle-aged lady in cuffs, and the lady looks like she's a whole lot more trouble. Danny looks miserable, though, his shirt soaked through with sweat, his hair dark with it as well, his silk tie a sad and wrinkled thing and mud and dust covering his suit pants right up to the knees.

"Everybody okay?" Steve flashes his badge at the HPD officer setting up tape, and ducks under it to get to his team. Kono, flushed and bright-eyed, drags her suspect over to him.

"We were coming through to find out more about the Waterson case, the embezzlement? And the neighbors all said they'd gone out of town, only Danny saw someone going out the back down the embankment, so we grabbed 'em. This lady had a handgun, she was taking potshots." She hands over the woman, who's literally shivering with the kind of rage that almost has Steve stepping back.

"Get your hands off me," she hisses at him. "I will have your _badge_ for this, do you hear me? Do you know who I am? I want your name, I want your supervisor's name. I am filing charges."

"Yeah, yeah," Danny pipes up wearily from where he's still got a knee between the shoulders of his own suspect; Mr. Waterson, Steve presumes. "Shut it, lady. You just dragged us through half a mile of untamed wilderness and SHOT at me, okay? You're lucky I didn't taze you."

"Danny," Kono reproves, hiding her grin, and Steve has to duck his head to conceal his, too.

"Look, can we just hand these two over for booking? Please? I am dying over here, I might actually die." His face is really red, Steve notices, and feels a little flash of fear. High of 95, and Danny still not really acclimated to summer.

"Yeah, let's let someone else book 'em, Danno, we've got all the documentation back at HQ. Where it's air conditioned." He lends Danny a hand getting up, shoves both Mr. and the lovely Mrs. Waterson into the waiting hands of the HPD, and hustles Danny into the truck.

"Let's get back home," he tells Kono, low-voiced. "Danny's not looking so good, maybe overheating. Did you take separate cars?"

"Nope, rode together," she answers, all crisp business. "Get gone, boss, I'll meet you there." Kono knows the dangers of heat exhaustion better than anyone, and Danny'd gotten a little sunburned during his surfing adventure, upping the risk. He nods, claps her on the shoulder, and trots back to his truck where the AC is still blasting.

"You okay?" He doesn't even keep the door open longer than he has to. Danny rolls his head sideways on the headrest, looking at him skeptically.

"I'm fine, mom. Just didn't drink enough water before heading out, that's all. Dumb move."

"Very dumb," Steve agrees, hands tight on the wheel as he drives them back down the mountainside.

"Thanks," Danny's sarcasm voice in full force, and it's a relief, really. He's already starting to perk up in the AC, and something in Steve eases down. "I'm not a child, Steven. I do realize that heatstroke's a possibility, in this stupid climate."

"What's more stupid, the weather patterns of the an entire region of the planet, or the guy who won't concede a single inch of his wardrobe to the aforementioned weather patterns?" Steve asks the windshield, and is surprised by a chuckle. He cuts his eyes sideways, and Danny's grinning at him.

"Okay, McGarret. Okay, fine. Yes, it was kind of ridiculous to wear this today, I admit it." He plucks distastefully at the now-wrecked shirt. Steve can't even imagine why anyone not a banker would own such an item of clothing.

"Hallelujah," he says, his voice filled with relief. "He has seen the light. We're going shopping right after work, FINALLY, this this place down in Waiamea--"

"Whoa, whoa, wait up there, Captain Crazypants," Danny breaks in, hand raised. "Don't get your pigtails all wound up. We are not going shopping for me after work, you are not my wardrobe consultant, and I am merely admitting that this _particular_ shirt, which was great back in Jersey, probably won't make the cut here. Apparently, Hawaii and starch don't mix." He wrinkles his nose down at himself. "This does not mean I'll be dressing like a beach bunny."

Steve bites his lip to keep the instinctive sneer at the “J” word hidden, then realizes what Danny just said. "Beach bum, Danny," he corrects, as gently as he can.

"Bunny, bum, what's the difference?"

"Bunnies are the girls who sit around in tiny bikinis and they're basically surfer groupies." Steve keeps a straight face with what he thinks is a truly heroic effort.

"I can't believe I didn't already know that," Danny groans, and his head tips back. Then his eyes fly open and he stares at Steve accusingly. "Tell me that face you have on does NOT mean you're picturing me in a bikini right now. Swear it."

"Jesus, Danny!" Steve finally gives in to the laughter. "Well, I wasn't before!”

"Stop thinking about that right now. I am not that kind of girl, Steven." But Danny's grinning again himself, and he's even laughing a little as Steve parks the truck in the lot, locks up, and hustles them both into the cool sanctuary of the office, and to the mountain of paperwork awaiting them on their latest bust.

***

Steve's never been a paperwork kind of guy. His specialty has always been action, and after two hours of staring at forms and checking little boxes and signing his name a hundred times, he decides that it’s probably better to leave this for when they all have clearer heads. They’ve gotten a great lucky bust today, nobody’s bleeding, it’s totally fine to knock off early.

He raps his knuckles on Danny’s door, looking with approval at the nearly-empty water bottle on his desk. “Hey. Let’s close up early, what do you say?”

“Slacker,” Danny accuses him, hunts and pecks two more letters on his keyboard, then looks up at him. His color is back to normal and he’s lost that gray tone under the red that had set off Steve’s alarm bells, and Steve can tell the difference between his sunburned nose and the rest of his face again.

“Come on,” he wheedles, leaning against the door frame now. “We can stop by the mall, get some shave ice, do some community outreach.”

“You do realize that it’s the third level of Hell out there currently, yes?” Still, Danny starts gathering up his files, shutting down his computer, and Steve beams at him, well-pleased with himself. “Stop it with that face,” Danny grumps at him, and he blinks.

“What?”

“That face. It’s the one you make when you get your own way, which happens so often that you have a dedicated expression for it. It’s annoyingly smug.”

“I can’t help it that it makes me happy when my people follow my suggestions,” Steve defends himself, feeling put-upon, no longer beaming.

“And now you’ve got the slanty-eyebrows-slash-puppy-eyes ‘why are you being mean to me?’ expression,” Danny continues to narrate, and as usual when Danny makes a personal comment, Steve feels a little explosion of warm affection in his chest.

“It’s so cute that you’ve named all my imaginary faces, it really is,” he informs Danny, who snorts his amusement, and finally gets his monitor powered off.

“Take me home, James,” he orders. “I’m whipped. My legs were already killing me from the surfing, and now that I’ve been involved in a goddamn wilderness trek, I’m about ready for a beer and the game and to sit still for a very, very long time.”

“Knee okay?” Steve grabs his keys and locks up, Kono and Chin already long gone. He spares a moment to be grateful that Kono’s out tying up loose ends in the arrest, because otherwise he’d be duty bound to offer her Danny’s lift home.

“Hanging in there. You’ll notice I am without cane.” Danny’s moving like he can’t figure out which leg to limp on since everything hurts, a sensation Steve is very familiar with.

“I did notice that. It’s a shame, really, it lends you a certain…panache.”

“I got plenty of panache, asshole, I got your panache _right here_ ,” and Steve is laughing as they approach his truck, as he unlocks the door, and then the smell hits him and he slams the door so fast he almost gets his own finger.

He cannot believe he’d forgotten about the bag. The bag with all Danny’s shit in it, left in the truck in the sun in 99 degree weather, and clearly something—or somethings—have exploded and it smells like twelve hair salons threw up in there, and the resulting vomit has been baked for two hours.

“We can’t take my truck,” he tells Danny over the hood. “Please tell me your car is here somewhere.”

“No, my car is still in the shop, as you very well know, you heard me bitch about that stupid cab service this morning.” Danny’s staring at him like he’s crazy, which, okay, isn’t that unusual, but right now it’s really really important that Danny not get in this vehicle. “What the hell is wrong with the truck?”

“I think it’s contaminated,” Steve says desperately, and god, he cannot lie to Danny, he’s a terrible liar anyway but Danny always sees through him like a laser, and yep, there go those eyes, narrowing at him, and Danny’s reaching for the door handle and fuck.

“What the fuck is that smell?” Danny slams the door again, hard, and then freezes, and Steve watches him look up at him again like it’s in slow motion. He can almost hear the foreboding music playing. “Steven. What is that smell.”

“It’s a chemical contaminant,” Steve says stubbornly, and it’s not a lie, not really. “It’s, I left a can of something in there, and it got really hot and clearly blew up. I should have known better.”

“It smells quite a bit like hairspray,” Danny says evenly, and then the door is open and Danny’s reaching into the crew-cab seat behind the main bench, and he’s got the bag, and Steve wonders for a panicked desperate moment if he could make it to the ocean at a sprint, if he starts now, without Danny catching him. He’s almost tensed to go, when the squawk of Danny’s voice comes from inside the truck, and he winces and closes his eyes and braces himself for impact.

The silence afterwards is far more ominous. And stretches on. And on. He hears movement but doesn’t open his eyes, knowing in his heart of hearts that not seeing won’t help, but unable to force them open anyway.

“Steve.” Danny’s voice doesn’t sound angry. Maybe Danny has already killed him, and he’s now hearing voices from his new home beyond the grave? Carefully, Steve cracks one eye open.

Danny is standing in front of him, hands on his hips, looking exasperated and tired and a little battered, but not angry. Steve surreptitiously pinches himself to make sure he’s not dead. Nope, he can feel it.

“Yes, Danny?”

“We…are going to talk about this. We are. But we are not going to talk about it in the parking lot, because I think perhaps things should be said, and voices might be raised, and people around here already got nothing better to do than gossip about those freaks from the Five-O. So. Roll down the goddamn windows, and drive us someplace else. If I die, I am blaming you, and you can just add it to the top of the very, very long list of offenses you're racking up right now."

"Right. I can do that. Okay." Just glad that Danny's not hitting him in the face, Steve gets the doors back open with alacrity, holding his breath as he starts the engine and toggles all the windows already open. He even reaches back to slide open the rear cab window, and by the time he's belted in, so is Danny. Looking straight ahead.

"Your place or mine, pick. Wait, no. No. We're going to my place so I can see exactly what kind of destruction your deranged mind thought might be appropriate."

"No destruction," Steve holds up a hand to god. "Swear it."

"Uh huh," Danny says, but he actually sounds like he might even be fighting back a laugh, and though Steve couldn't have imagined this going so well, he's so relieved he feels lightheaded. It's a short drive to Danny's rathole apartment, and Steve can't help but feel a sense of deja vu as he pulls up into the muddy drive.

"I was just here," he says, and then winces at his own big mouth.

"No shit," Danny says drily, and hauls himself out of the truck, only pausing to grab Steve's black duffel, swing it over his shoulder, and drag it up the stairs. He does leave it out on the little porch, though, and Steve gives it a nasty look as he trails reluctantly through the door in Danny's wake. The stink has been giving him a headache the whole drive, and it's only just starting to clear.

"Sit. Do not talk. Do not move," Danny points him to the chair, and Steve, still feeling like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop, actually sits. Danny blinks at him.

"I think I gotta catch you doing illegal and totally stupid shit more often," he muses out loud, and then he's digging in the cupboard, grabbing two glasses, dumping in ice and even what looks like some half-decent scotch. He pauses on the way back, looking at the sticky-note on the door, and when he hands Steve the tumbler, the laugh-lines around his eyes are crinkled up. Steve grins back.

"Cute," Danny says, settling in on the couch next to him--Steve is so going to buy the man a decent and comfortable chair for his birthday, it's just not right--"but you're not out of the doghouse. You've been acting weird all week. _All week long_ , ever since the tsunami fakeout. I would like you to remember that I am a highly experienced and decorated police detective. I notice things."

Steve sips his scotch and feels his whole body go tight, looking away. It's the one thing about Danny that drives him crazy sometimes; the man cannot just let things go. He has to talk about them. Constantly.

"Don't you even," Danny's voice drags him back to paying attention, which he does, if reluctantly. "Don't you pull that ice ninja routine on me, I _know_ it's bullshit. You were weird Wednesday when we had the stakeout, you were weird yesterday, and now you pull this bullshit, breaking into my house and taking my stuff? That's grade-school prank level, right there, and it's fucking stupid, so stupid I can't even get mad, mostly I'm just worried that you're having a psychotic break or something. Not that we'd really be able to tell, much. What the hell is eating you?"

When Steve looks over at him, Danny's still staring straight at him, sipping his scotch, with that look in his eyes. The one that says 'I have all the time and patience in the world, and you're not getting away, and I will talk you to DEATH if I need to but you WILL break.' Steve's seen it work before. It's very effective.

He sighs, scrubs a hand through his hair, and takes a bigger drink. He might need a refill.

"Look. I'm sorry about the ties, and stuff. I honestly forgot they were in the truck, I was gonna give 'em back, I was." He runs out of words right there, and looks at Danny hopefully. No joy. Danny gestures, 'come on, come on,' and Steve sighs again, feeling very ill-used.

"I don't know what you want me to say, here, Danny." Suddenly agitated, he stands up and starts to pace, gets frustrated by the fact that he can only take three steps each way, and stops again. "I mean. You've been with 5-0 for six months, now, and you still talk about how you're going back to Jersey the second you can. That's rough on the team, you know? Now that you and Kono are...getting close, whatever, I figured you'd let up on that, but you haven't. I just want you to be comfortable here. Stay with the team."

"Whoa. Back up." Danny puts his drink down, and even sitting still, those eyes make Steve feel small. "What was that thing you said about Kono?"

"You know." Steve, deeply uncomfortable, makes a vague gesture with the hand that's not holding the tumbler. "You guys are getting close."

"Is that your fucked-up way of implying that we're, what, dating?" Danny's face is getting red, and Steve just stonewalls, crossing his arms and not saying anything. "Or no, no, you must mean we're fucking. That must be it. Jesus Christ, McGarret, have you ever HAD a friend?"

Steve shifts a little, but still doesn't answer, stubborn. He knows what he's seen. Danny tips his head back against the couch, like his head hurts so, so much, and groans.

"Just please tell me you haven't run any of this total crap past Chin. I enjoy my dick, I don't want to lose it."

"What?" That startles Steve into talking. "No, of course not. And I didn't mean that you were, you know." He can't say 'fucking' and be talking about Kono. She's like his little sister or something.

"Fucking," Danny says flatly. "Good, because we're not. And we're not dating, and we're not romantic, and we're not writing each other mash notes that say do you like me, check 'yes' or 'no,' and I'm not taking her to the prom. We are close, yes, she's an amazing woman and she's one of the best friends I've made in years. You're so stupid I don't even understand how you manage to function around the rest of us humans sometimes."

Steve wants to say something in his own defense, here, but then Danny's up off the couch and right in his face, just like the first day they met, and now he looks mad. "I'm gonna say it in really small words, just for you." He pokes Steve in the chest with one finger, and Steve looks down at it, baffled. "I understand that you have the strong silent thing happening. I get that, I do. I respect it, usually, only now it's really starting to piss me off. I am not interested in Kono, and all you had to do was ASK me and I could have told you that. Instead, you do this, I don't even know what this is. Hazing? Flirting? God knows I'm out of practice, the last person who tried to pick me up ran me over with her car and mmmf-"

Steve loves Danny's voice, but Danny's right up in his space, looking kind of amazing even in that awful shirt and tie, and Steve can't resist. After this whole insane day, he thinks even if he's guessing wrong Danny will probably forgive him. Danny's a lot more forgiving than he'd given him credit for, and Steve really wants to kiss him, so he does. Just like that.

Of course Danny keeps trying to talk for the first couple of seconds, of _course_ he does, but Steve gets his hands around, one flat between Danny's shoulderblades and one smoothing into the sweet curve of his lower back, and just kind of curls down around him, breathing him in. Lips barely touching, no tongue. He's got his eyes closed, he's not sure he wants to see the expression on Danny's face. If this is the only chance he gets, he's going to make the most of it.

When Danny pulls back a long moment later, he lets him, but doesn't remove his arms.

"So." Danny's voice sounds rough, husky, more than a little surprised. "Why didn't you just say you were jealous, you neanderthal?"

Steve's eyes fly open at that, and Danny's smirking at him and that smirk should be _illegal_ , and it's really more than Steve should be expected to tolerate. He makes a low noise in the base of his throat, and two quick moves and a shove and Danny's bouncing down onto the couch, Steve coming right down after him.

"Hey, hey!" Two palms brace on his chest, and Danny's laughing, and Steve's grinning, feels like he's ten feet tall and maybe floating. "No jiu-jitsu in bed, you hear me?"

"That was actually an aikido move," Steve starts to explain, but Danny's eyes roll hard and he gets an arm around Steve's neck and yanks him down, and there's nothing sweet or simple about this kiss. Steve always manages to forget what a powerhouse Danny is, until it's practically demonstrated. This is way better than getting hit in the face.

Danny's going to eat him alive, he thinks a few minutes later, panting against his own bicep as Danny sucks what feels like the mother of all hickeys into the hollow of his throat. Danny's shirt is off, and the hated tie is gone, and Steve's own t-shirt has vanished into the mess, and they're barely fitting on the couch and he doesn't care. Skin on skin, finally, it's too hot and he's sweating and they're sliding together, Danny's got one foot on the floor bracing them up, laughing against Steve's jaw and then reaching up for his mouth, another deep, drugging kiss.

"This is so ridiculous," Danny says, right against his lips, voice a lot lower and slower than Steve's used to hearing. "So, so ridiculous. You do realize that, right?"

"Feels okay to me," Steve tries to shift up so he can get a better grip on the tightest, firmest ass he's had his hands on in years, and almost knocks them both off the couch.

"Hey, careful!" Danny squirms, almost tilts them over again, and then gives up and rolls them both down to the floor. Steve twists, gut-deep instincts telling him exactly where the floor is and how to land carefully, and they roll once, all tangled up together, only stopping when Danny braces both hands on the floor, leaning over Steve and straddling his hips, hair falling in his face.

"I like your hair," Steve blurts out, and there's that smile from Danny again, the sun-bright one, and it makes him feel a little less stupid even though he can feel his face flush hot.

"Oh, Smooth Dog," Danny purrs. "I can tell you are a real player. Oh yeah." Then they're kissing again and it doesn't matter.

Somewhere between kicking off his boots and Danny getting out of his holster, belt and pants, Steve manages to pull out the sofa-bed, bitching the whole time about the creaking springs, and then forgetting about them when Danny plasters himself all up and down his back, callused hands stroking up his belly, down to his cock, over his thighs. Steve feels like he might pass out. Sweat prickles up between his shoulder blades, and by the time he's down on his back on the thin mattress, Danny sucking on his tongue, he's half-wild with it.

"Like this, like this," Danny mutters, easing down over him so their cocks line up, a perfect slick slide, and he starts to move. It's like surfing, Steve thinks, fuzzy through the haze of the orgasm that's building at the base of his spine, hot and urgent, like riding a wave, he moves up and Danny rides it, Danny's hips shove down and the friction is nothing short of glorious. He comes hard and fast, letting himself go completely, shaking through it with Danny's hands on his shoulder and in his hair, holding him together.

"Fuck, fuck, the way you _look_ ," Danny chants, and even though Steve's habit of silence during sex is too longstanding to break so soon, he drinks in the way Danny's head goes back, the sounds he's making, Christ, they're better than any porn he's ever seen. His hips jerk fast, onetwothree and then he's following Steve over, every muscle going tight.

Steve starts wondering if he can convince Danny to never wear clothing again, right then and there.

It turns out, no surprise, that Danny's tactile and dozy afterwards, sprawling out half-on and half-off Steve, eyes nearly closed, looking blissed-out. Steve loops an arm around him. Just for warmth, he assures himself, letting his eyes drift closed, himself.

"Don't think you're falling asleep on me, McGarret." Danny's voice sounds a little funny, from where he's talking against Steve's chest. "There's still the whole thing where you get to go out and replace half my wardrobe and everything from my medicine cabinet that you stole."

"Can't I just...can't you just dress down? Tomorrow?" Steve will never admit it, but there's something very close to a whine in his voice. He's still reeling from all this, he'd like a moment or two to reflect, maybe wallow, maybe even cuddle a little, but Hurricane Danny clearly has other plans.

"No way, not a chance, babe. Ties. Shirts. I'll give you a list for the salon."

"The _salon?_ Jesus." Steve rolls his eyes.

"You think I use cheap crap? You think looking this good comes from the dollar store?" Danny's laughing at him now, he can feel the tremble of it under his hand, where it's spread out on Danny's ribcage. In revenge, Steve reaches up a little, tugs at that blond hair, works his fingers through it. Not as soft as he'd like, what with all the gunk in it.

"Think how nice it'll be when your hair doesn't make my hand sticky," he coaxes, and that gets a real laugh.

"We are literally covered in sticky, and not the kind that comes from a can, and this is what you're worrying about? Look. Okay, maybe I'll take it under advisement, on weekends only." Danny lifts up to look him straight in the eye. "And you're never allowed to touch anything in my closet again. AND you have to get condoms while you're out, and you have to lifeguard Grace's surfing lesson this weekend."

Steve doesn't even answer that, just throws both arms up like it's touchdown time, rolls Danny over, and kisses him back down into the mattress, whole body loose and easy, like maybe they've both come home.


End file.
